


A Home, in Four Parts

by docboredom



Category: TWRP | Tupper Ware Remix Party (Band)
Genre: Gen, I KNOW CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT'S THE NAME SUPER ON BRAND FOR TWRP HUH, So maybe the boys have a TARDIS, and maybe it's based off the house of eternal return from meow wolf, i really don't know how to tag this, its just a bunch of glances into lives and bedrooms, such is the lives of four space boys, this bugger's going to show up in stellar objects so you get a sneak peak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:41:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24216823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/docboredom/pseuds/docboredom
Summary: In Eternal, anything is possible. That's the joy of having a ship that knows what you're thinking about.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

Doctor Sung’s room was the most similar to the last one he lived in before they had gotten Eternal. All metal rafters and bare bones. A single porthole faced out towards every passing planet and star. And despite several warnings and all common sense, he had made that part much bigger, creating a full body window pane that you swear he could fall through if the need ever came- a verifiable safety hazard. His most favorite thing. 

It would be forever comfortably cramped, just as small as it had been once long ago, on a nameless ship when they had only all been teenagers. The very essence of it an exercise in minimalism that went against everything he was and yet suited him somehow. Wires hanging from the ceiling, electronics gutted and with their innards turned out, long forgotten experiments that he’d be getting back to someday, hands off to anyone else.

There were little glow in the dark stars glued against the wall that his bed hung on. Pictures of Danny and Brian pressed between them, Planet Booty, all their beloved Earthen merch lords. Home didn’t need anything else for Sung. He really only needed a bed, a kitchen, a toilet to piss in…

The stars.

Though sometimes he would dream of lavender fields and a song bird named Pianni trilling whatever lay in his heart, the air smelling of fresh bread, two distant joys intertwined as laughter slipped down the hall. 

Sung swore he knew their names, their faces. He knew exactly who they were.

But every morning was the same and he'd wake up already forgetting them.


	2. Chapter 2

Lord Phobos had created for himself a greenhouse-rainforest-garden biome clusterfuck to live in, so big it couldn’t even be called a bedroom. There was an inherent humidity to it that Eternal supplied both easily and eagerly, and same applied to the eternal sunshine it supplied, or the drizzling rains it would give sporadically. Even the evenings were softer there, painted across the glassy prism barrier and dense foliage in warm violets and gentle blues, matching Phobos to a tee.

It was nothing like his last room on their last ship, which had simply been an amalgam of Sung’s ill fitting hand me downs. All shoved into a too tight space that he didn't know what to do with, too caught up in the destruction of his planet and being the last of his species. Understandably, he knew now, but back then things had been different.

The best seat in the house was his bed, if you could even call it that, hanging from the tallest tree in the center of everything; lined with fairy lights and fluffy comforters and overstuffed pillows. He’d curl himself upon it every night with a cup of tea in one hand and a book of poetry in the other, letting peace find him at it’s own unhurried pace, then eventually sleeping until the dawn came and pushed him towards the kitchen.

He rarely played music in that space, choosing instead to gather leaves and flower petals to write lyrics upon and press into journal for later, once he stepped back into the real world. This was the one place where his vow still existed in all of it’s entirety... Complete silence, never strained, always welcome and almost comforting. It was a reminder of everything that he had lost years ago. What he was still fighting for.

Phobos had changed so much since then but he had finally found a new sense of home and belonging.

And while it would never be quite perfect, never be Satelles, it was more than enough.


	3. Chapter 3

One could swear that Commander Meouch didn’t actually have a room in the spacious sprawling that was Eternal, or that he didn’t sleep at all. He seemed to exist primarily outside of it most days, moving easily through the halls of the willful, shapeshifting ship as a cat would, features lit by the neon tracery etched into the walls. It was almost too common to see him in the kitchen with tired eyes, in the engine room swearing up a storm, or tucked in eagerly at the captain’s chair with various coordinates laid out, always choosing to ignore Sung. The music room too was a typical hangout, where they recorded and fucked around too much. Thumb jumping along the cords of his bass, nails clicking along the keys of the piano...

But Meouch  _ did _ have a room, and it was quite plain and normal, surprising virtually everyone. The usual pomp and circumstance that came with his stage persona didn’t filter into the gunmetal gray paint of his walls, the plain navy blue of his comforter, the handmade shelves that boasted little knick knacks and Lego models and collector’s edition vinyls all lined up alphabetically some weeks, by color the next. It was a room caught in a perpetual twilight, the last little bit of sunshine before day turned to night slanting through the windows and settling warm and heavy onto his worn sheets, perfect for nap time. 

He hadn’t had a room when he first came here. He hadn’t allowed himself that luxury. All there had been was a dark space with a mattress in the corner and cigarette butts lining the floor haphazardly. When Sung had told him that Eternal could give them anything they could ever dream of, Meouch had been wary at first, staring at the blank canvas stretch with trepidation as his tail wound around his stomach. Sometimes, he still didn’t feel deserving of this little space, the corner and the new life he had carved out. That all was because of his father, his childhood, the disjointed and violent way he had grown up.

It was always a little easier though when he turned on one of his favorite records, made a drink, and thought of his mom though. He’d find her one day when he finally felt better.  When he was ready to be called someone’s son once more.

Eventually, he'd get there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was pretty fucking HARD to write tbh. had to get introspective. had to think about my boy. had to get into the MEAT OF IT.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a little short. For many reasons. There's a lot of Havve's story I still want to tell that because I'm a shit head author I don't really want to tell here. There's also the fact that he always has been this enigmatic creature. That's the joy of him, personally. I see Havve and I kind of fall back on Lynchian themes and black and whites and how he moves away from those.
> 
> I *did* want to finish this little fic too. And in a little bit of time, i'll be getting back to my other writing, but for reasons that when you're reading this may come as a current reality or a distant memory, it feels appropriate to be taking my time and also taking a break.
> 
> I had some White Claw before I wrote this and I'm listening to emotional FF7 remake music right now (omg I know NOT andrew bird crazy right???) and I just wanted to say thank you for TWRP for giving me hope, a sense of community, a platform to make art and write. I want to use that platform as an opportunity to anyone reading this right now to please follow through on the link below and donate if you can or sign a petition or simply to educate yourself. Black Lives will matter no matter when you find yourself reading this. We all have to do our part.
> 
> https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/#donate
> 
> Thank you.

For lack of better words, Havve Hogan did not have a room. He had an inexplicable lacuna that shrunk and expanded on itself like lungs in the chest of the world. On the inhale it was mirrors and ballet bars, blackboard walls stretching on for infinity, Escher-esque platforms and stairwells that folded into themselves over and over again. On the exhale it was no more than a dark ring of trees at midnight, cables and computer towers, a long forgotten cavern filled with ice and blood and aching memories.

His past was _this_. A knife in his hand, a tremulous link, unbecoming death and becoming a better man. Countless pens and sketch pads with endless circles drawn into them. Splintered drumsticks and cracked cymbals. The rasp of a whetstone against his most favorite blade. Smoky laughter from Meouch, Phobos falling asleep with his head in his lap, Sung smiling brightly like the stars he sang to every night.  
  
A room is just a space to occupy. A home is where you lived.  
  
TWRP was his home, his family, his dreams made real.  


**Author's Note:**

> i listened to andrew bird's "i want to see pulaski at night" nonstop while writing this and i would kindly suggest you do too


End file.
